by Guy Haley
Metal muffled the shouting, but not enough to render it inaudible.
‘Elver! Elver, Emperor forsake you! Elver! Wake up!’
‘What?’ A fuzzy, disconnected feeling squeezed Elver’s waking mind into a useless ball. His mouth was dry, all his spit seemed to have run out onto his chest. He wiped his face clean on the back of his hand, wincing at the tart smell the drugs gave his breath.
‘It’s me, Elver! Endson. Open the damned door!’ Endson was one of the less objectionable members of the crew. That didn’t make his intrusion welcome. Elver groaned and pulled his dirty pillow over his head.
The thumping stopped for a few seconds. Any thoughts of relief Elver had at Endson’s departure were chased away when the pounding recommenced, this time as metal clanging on metal. Endson’s pounding fell into time with the alarm.
‘Elver!’ Endson screamed. ‘I’m not going until you’re out of there!’
Quite obviously, Endson was not going to leave him alone.
‘Alright, alright!’ Elver rose, and groped his way to the door, kicking an empty bottle across the floor on his way. Maybe chasing the tranquillisers down with a half litre of life water hadn’t been so clever.
He was shaking hard from his drugged sleep. His limbs were cotton soft. Two attempts saw the door release depressed and Elver exhausted all over again.
The door slid back at just the wrong moment, and Elver nearly received a fire-suppressant canister in the face.
‘Why are you hitting my door with the extinguisher?’ Elver asked, genuinely perplexed.
‘You weren’t getting up!’
‘That’s because I don’t want to.’
Endson goggled at him. ‘But everyone’s got to come. Captain says.’
Elver squinted at him. Endson’s face was having trouble staying still, wafting about like smoke.
‘By the loyal nine, you’re drunk again!’ Endson said.
‘Always am, off shift,’ slurred Elver. ‘Can’t sleep.’
‘Pull yourself together! The captain wants everyone.’ Endson’s wavering face was coalescing into a canvas of slack-mouthed fright. ‘Come with me!’ He grabbed Elver’s arm and dragged him into the corridor.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘Where do you think?’ said Endson breathlessly. ‘The catch-bay!’
Like everyone else, Tolly Kiner was summoned to the catch-bay, but he was in no kind of hurry. He was down in the bilges of the vessel. No one went down there unless they had to, which is why Kiner liked it – that and because it reminded him of the mines he once worked, before an indiscretion with a jack hammer and another man’s face forced his career into this new direction.
‘Kiner, Kiner, you can hear this, I know it, get yourself up here now.’
The vox spoiled the quiet. Kiner tutted and slapped his hand onto the vox set at his waist, turning it off. Similarly, he ignored the clamour of the alarms, easily done down there where they were faint and unimportant.
No one but a man used to the worst conditions would want to brave the bilge’s foetid vapours, and the tainted water slopping around in the collection tanks. All because men needed water to survive, and were forced to take it everywhere they went. The number of wars in humanity’s history fought over water were beyond enumeration. Tolly Kiner wasn’t particularly aware of that, but he did know that without water, there could be no life.
Water had its ways. Water was not an easy prisoner. It did not like confinement, but took every opportunity to escape, corroding its way through ancient pipes, or worming out past inadequate seals. As always, water ran down, towards the very bottom where there was nowhere else to go. It made no difference that the gravity it obeyed was artificial; as long as there was a down, water would find it.
That is why void ships needed bilges, no different to the vile gutters of ancient, wooden sailing vessels. Every drip of errant condensation, every slop of sewage from ruptured waste pipes, every spilled sip of the crew’s synthol rations trickled its way to ugly tanks where it mingled with fuel and oils and who knew what else into a scummy soup.
In a well-run ship, the liquid would be drawn off for reprocessing, the tanks desludged and scrubbed at every dock. The Sheldroon was not a well-run ship. Its bilges overflowed, the fluid slopping out of its appointed place. The lack of cleansing provided opportunity for creatures other than men. There, life’s strange alchemy had taken hold and made a little world.
The bottommost deck stretched out three hundred metres either side of the access stair and the companionway at its centre, and hundreds more metres fore and aft, all filled with water. A rusty lifter platform was situated some way further on from the staircase foot, but Kiner never used that. Its snarling motors destroyed the peace of the place.
Sump water rose far past the lips of the square containment tanks – visible beneath the surface, furred with algal growth – and washed over the lower walkways. In places protoplants mounded up to make small islands. There wasn’t much functional space down there; the ceiling did not need to be high and therefore was not. Cabling hung low enough to strangle an incautious man. Lumens offered glowing bump hazards. The bilges hadn’t been made for life, human or otherwise, but Kiner found diversion in this metal-bound swamp.
The bilges supported a surprising diversity of creatures. There were the obligatory rats, whose kind had spread as far and fast as humanity across the stars, but there was so much else besides. Mutant insects of a dozen worlds. Darting, luminous amphibians evolved within the hulls of other ships and spread via contaminated supplies. Slick bodied predators with needle teeth. Nobody else cared about the Sheldroon’s out of place biome. Kiner kept its secrets to himself. He had become something of a naturalist, albeit of an amateur sort.
He hummed as he poked about in a slime-choked tank. Rich organic odours burped up from the bottom as he raked his pole along it. The smell of the bilges was calming, nowhere near as bad as it should have been considering what went into the tanks. The clamour of the alarms from the higher decks got louder. The captain’s command went ship-wide, crackling out into the bilge level from rarely used fluted vox-horns clustered over the central walkway.
‘All crew to report to the catch-bay immediately. That means you too, Tolly Kiner!’
The horns snapped off with a rustle of static. The echoes took a long time to die, and the creatures in the depths only resumed their business when they did.
Kiner scowled up at the horns.
‘Leave me alone!’ he grumbled. His vox set twittered, demanding to be turned back on.
The alarms were beginning to get to him. He looked to the stairwell, where the majority of the light in the bilges came from. Most of the lumens were out, or filled with water and slime and dimmed to uselessness.
‘Throne curse it all,’ he said.
Regretfully he laid down his pole, dusted off his knees, and turned, whereupon he walked right into a giant he had utterly failed to see.
He took a step back. He couldn’t see up to the thing’s grinning, luminous face without doing so.
Eyes dark as forever looked down at him. They bore him no malice, they were perhaps almost kind, but there was a fever twinkling far back in them that hinted at unplumbable insanity.
‘Hello, mortal. What is your name?’ said the creature, in a manner that would have been pleasant were it not for the cold radiating from it, and the abattoir smell of its breath.
Tolly Kiner’s jaw flopped wide. He tried to take another step back preparatory to fleeing, but his foot dangled over water, and he was forced to stay where he was.
‘T-T-Tolly. Tolly Kiner,’ said Tolly Kiner.
The creature moved a step closer. Kiner tensed and leaned back, teetering on the edge of falling into the pool. The giant wore nothing but a ragged gown showing pale flesh hatched by a thousand scars and seamed with grime. It exuded a peculiar odour that managed to be alluring, despite the creature’s filthiness. A fly buzzed past Kiner’s head. They often star
ted to bother him after he’d been down there a while, but none went anywhere near the giant.
‘Tell me, T-T-Tolly Kiner, who now sits upon the throne of Terra?’
Kiner’s brow creased at the question.
‘Is it the Emperor? The Emperor of Mankind?’ said the creature.
Tolly was a simple man, and could not comprehend another had almost taken the Emperor’s place not very long ago. He nodded.
The giant exhaled a gust of pure indifference. ‘So father won. I knew he would. I saw it, after all.’ He reached out a hand and pushed up Kiner’s chin with the tip of one blackened, ragged nail. ‘And what is the current date?’
‘I-I-I-I–’
‘Shhhh,’ said the giant. ‘You are a crewman upon a void ship.’ He gestured expansively at the bilge-swamp. His manner was so hypnotic Kiner saw the place in a new and glorious light. ‘A hero of the space ways. A man like yourself must know the year? Vessels must keep logs, surely. Or was the victory as bad as defeat?’
‘The… the date?’ said Kiner.
‘Yes, the date,’ said the creature.
Tolly Kiner swallowed. ‘It’s, I think, so far as we can tell, not having our own Astropath and such, it is millennium thirty-one, year thirty-two, accepting a plus or minus deviation of two to three years, as is to be expected.’
‘Plus or minus deviation,’ said the creature approvingly. ‘Now you sound like a space farer, Tolly Kiner, and not a sump grubbing insignificant! Thirty-one or thirty-two, you say?’
Kiner nodded enthusiastically.
‘So short a time?’ The creature sighed. ‘Oh well, I suppose it could have been worse. Such as, an eternity,’ he said. He looked expectant at this witticism, and expected Kiner to share the joke.
‘A-a-are you a primarch?’ blurted Tolly Kiner.
The creature grinned ferally.
‘Yes, I am a primarch,’ it said. ‘I am the most cursed of the Emperor’s cursed sons.’ Sharpened teeth made for a shark’s smile. ‘Cast out into the void by my loving brother, the so-called Great Angel of Baal. Until you happened along.’ He prodded the man in the chest. The force of the touch made Kiner whimper. ‘I doubt that’s common knowledge, so I am certain you’re wondering which one of the twenty I am. Can you guess?’
Tolly Kiner shook his head.
‘I’ll wager you do know,’ he said brightly, then added threateningly, ‘say my name.’
Kiner swallowed. He had an inkling who the salvage was. The knowledge paralysed his tongue against his palate.
The creature leaned in close. ‘I’ll tell you then, as long as you promise to keep it to yourself. You will, won’t you? Promise now. Go on. I know you’re frightened.’ The giant sniffed around Kiner’s head. ‘I can smell it.’
Tolly Kiner nodded, still in the same state of dumb terror.
‘I am Konrad Curze,’ the creature said, shuddering with release as he spoke his name. ‘The Night Haunter. Eighth primarch, gene-father of the Night Lords Legion Astartes.’ Idly, Curze closed his hand around Kiner’s neck, and lifted him off the ground until Kiner’s face was level with Curze’s own.
A wet sound came from Tolly Kiner, followed by the warm, round smell of voided bowels.
‘I see you’ve heard of me too. Well, that is satisfying.’ Curze leered horribly. ‘You know, I’ve been wondering something else. Do you know what that is?’ His freezing grip shifted around Tolly Kiner’s neck. Kiner began to cry.
‘I’ve been wondering what sort of noises you’re going to make when I peel you alive.’ He ran a sharp nail down Kiner’s chest, slicing the skin open. ‘Let’s find out, shall we?’
Overton glared at them all individually, sparing not one member of the crew or the passengers his angriest glower. Irsk and Kutskin, his biggest henchmen, flanked the captain, aping his ferocious expression though without the same conviction, acting the heavy when they were as craven and disloyal as the rest of the crew.
‘Someone’s been down here,’ Overton said. ‘Someone who did this.’ The captain pointed at the sarcophagus, still in the middle of the floor, now thawed of ice and streaming condensation down its sides, but – most pertinently – empty of its occupant.
They were all present, except Tolly Kiner. Kiner’s absence suggested he’d been the one to crack the coffin open, which lessened the suspicion on the rest, or so Endson gabbled into Elver’s ear. Elver half-listened to him, not believing his theory for a second. There was another possibility, namely that none of them had opened it, but the occupant had freed himself.
‘We’re off the hook, you and me,’ whispered Endson. ‘Once he catches who did it, that’ll be that for them. More payout for us, eh? We’re off the hook!’
Overton was still speaking. Elver wasn’t hearing him either. Endson’s babble and the captain’s accusations drifted in and out of his awareness like frequencies clashing on a badly tuned vox.
‘…the biggest pay day we’ve had since forever,’ Overton was saying. ‘So whoever did this, is going to own up to it, tell me why they broke the stasis seal and ruined our chances of earning big, and I might let you live until we get to port and you can find another ship to blight! Irsk, the slate.’
Irsk handed Overton a data-slate. The captain tapped upon its brass keys and held up the screen for all to see.
The view was of the catch-bay. The sarcophagus, still full, flickered. The footage date stamp jumped several hours and, as if by a conjurer’s trick, the sarcophagus was empty.
‘Someone got into the central datastacks and erased this section of the vid,’ Overton said. ‘One of us. One,’ he stressed, ‘of you.’
Suspicious glances flew around the room. Chests puffed out. Solemn heads shook with adamant denial. More than a few knives were fingered. The crew were little better than pirates, Elver thought, ready to kill each other for a bit of coin. In fact, he told himself, they were worse than pirates, because they lacked the competence of corsairs. How mean and sordid a capsule world the Sheldroon really was. The passengers were quiet this time round, their excitement given way to worry. The mood was ugly.
‘Nobody? Nobody?’ said Overton. ‘Right, then.’ He jerked his chin in the direction of Elver. ‘Let’s see what the boy has to say.’
‘What?’ said Elver, suddenly paying full attention.
Irsk and Kutskin pushed their way through the group.
‘I don’t think he’s done anything,’ said Endson. ‘He was in his–’
Air whooshed from Endson’s lungs at a punch from Kutskin, who shoved him out of the way.
‘Feed hole closed, Endson,’ said Kutskin.
The crew drew back, leaving Elver exposed. Irsk nodded at his fellow thug. Kutskin grabbed Elver’s arms and wrenched them behind his back. The occupants of the catch-bay shuffled further out of the way. A lot of them were excited by the promised violence, though a few had the decency to look away.
‘You were a bit shaky, weren’t you, Elver. You were a bit perturbed.’ Irsk considered himself an intellectual, and over-enunciated words he thought clever. ‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Elver. ‘I get these feelings sometimes. It was just a real bad one. I didn’t open it. It scared me.’
Irsk grinned over his shoulder at Kutskin. ‘Feelings, he says,’ said Irsk, and drove his fist into Elver’s gut. ‘Wrong answer. Why did you let him out?’
Elver, bent double, coughed up a stream of spit. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘We’re asking the questions, Elver.’
Idiot, thought Elver, before Irsk punched him again.
‘Now tell us why you did it!’
‘I didn’t drakking do it!’ Elver gasped back.
Irsk drew his fist up, circling it around in preparation for another strike. He was dancing about with bloodlust, warmed to his task.
The blow didn’t land. The screams saw to that. A score of heads whipped up and around, seeking the source of the agony shrieking through the ship. It came from everywhere, up the
corridor, through the ventilation system, even, it seemed, resonating from the metal.
‘Tolly Kiner!’ said Teach.
The family of passengers covered their ears. The crew paled. Many men who claimed to be brave revealed themselves to be otherwise.
The noise lasted for two long minutes. Elver hadn’t known a man could scream that long without drawing breath. The noise was horrible, and froze them all.
When the last scream died, Overton took charge. ‘Irsk.’ He had to stop to steady his voice. ‘Kutskin, find out where that noise came from. Gravek, back to the bridge. Lock yourself in. Dendren, open the weapons lockers. Arm everyone aboard this ship.’
‘I think,’ said Elver, his hands rested on his knees, ‘that would be a very bad idea.’ He coughed out a rope of phlegm. ‘We should get out of here. Take our chance in the salvator pods and the docking shuttle.’
‘We’d never get anywhere! It’s two years to the nearest port,’ said Gravek. ‘We’d die in the void.’
The crew muttered to themselves, their voices building with fear and anger, until Overton was forced to shout.
‘Shut up! Shut up all of you! Elver, you shut up most,’ said Overton. He adjusted his belt and snapped open the press stud on his holster. ‘I’m captain. We’re going to hunt this bastard down. Nobody kills my crew on my ship and gets away with it.’
‘You don’t…’ gasped Elver. ‘You don’t know what you’re dealing with.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ said Overton.
They really didn’t know.
SIX
TWO LORDS OF THE NIGHT
‘I killed them all,’ Curze said quietly. ‘I enjoyed it,’ he added obstinately. ‘They were all guilty anyway. I wonder, how many would have died by my hand had your Imperium lived up to your expectations? How many more men like that would I have killed, full of righteous loathing for their inferiority? That would have been just, don’t you think?’
His challenge went unanswered.
‘I wonder often if Corax would have followed me into this same darkness, had the war not come. He and I were so similar, we could have been twins. Of them all, he and Sanguinius were the closest to me – not personally, none of them were my friends,’ Curze said sarcastically. ‘There were never any friends for me. But they were the most alike, though for different reasons. Corax and I, yes, both creatures of darkness, I the murderer, he the assassin, both preoccupied by justice, both raised around criminals.’